


the angel on her shoulder

by lightyaers



Series: the twelve days of chessmas [6]
Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Emotional, F/M, Fluff, Imaginary friend AU, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Love, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:27:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28030905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightyaers/pseuds/lightyaers
Summary: What if, instead of a chessboard on her ceiling, Beth envisions a friend.Benny is her imaginary, cowboy hat wearing, chess playing friend, sat upon her shoulder.
Relationships: Beth Harmon/Benny Watts
Series: the twelve days of chessmas [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032102
Comments: 12
Kudos: 136





	the angel on her shoulder

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the 12 Days of Chessmas!
> 
> This is part 6 and I wrote it all in one day, as soon as the idea arose to me. This is sort of a Drop Dead Fred AU, i guess? How weird. But I do like how this turned out. 
> 
> Please comment below headcanons!
> 
> Enjoy x

At the age of ten, Beth Harmon got an imaginary friend. Every game without fail, he’d show up behind her shoulder, cowboy hat donned, moustache groomed and knife at his hip.

She didn’t know how he came to be in her mind, but one day his hands were on her shoulders as she sat in front of Mr. Shaibel, guiding her through the game with a snarky comment here and there.

At night, he’d lie on the end of her bed, staring up at her ceiling and reciting chess games like poetry.

She knew he was imaginary. No one else could see him, sense him, witness his smirks or the subtle click of his fingers that he emitted after securing another win.

The first day he’d appeared, she’d cornered him in the Methuen bathroom—if you could even corner your own imaginary friend.

“Who are you?” She asked, staring at him threateningly.

“I don’t know, who’re you?” He hit back with. He was _annoying_ , that much she knew. Beth looked him up and down, trying her best to be scary, despite the pounding of her heart under her ribs.

“Are you a cowboy?” She asked, sending a perked brow to the hat that sat on his head. He grabbed it from his head, ruffling his hair as he tugged it from his skull. He chuckled at the hat to himself, wiping off the basement dust, before depositing it back on his hair.

“I guess so,” He replied. “Do you like cowboys?” Beth’s face softened. She took a step back.

“I’ve never seen one until now,” She replied truthfully.

“That makes two of us,” He chuckled out. As Beth watched him, she realised he had no idea what was going on, just the same as her.

“Are you here to help me with chess?” The way his eyes sparkled at the mention of chess was an image Beth knew she’d never forget.

“I love chess,” He said. It was apparently the only thing he knew about himself. Beth couldn’t help but smile at him then. He looked like a lost puppy—albeit an _annoying_ lost puppy—but if she’d really made him, then she was happy about it.

“Let’s play together, then.”

Beth couldn’t remember a time she’d ever been without him.

By the age of fifteen she’d learned not to speak with him in public. There’d been too many weird glances, too many rolls of the eyes and mutters of “There she goes... talking to the air again...” for her to keep up with it. He didn’t seem to mind, though.

They spoke in her room at night, when the moon rays cascaded over his face. He looked so _real_ , but she’d never tried to touch him. He looked so real, that the crumple of her bed sheets stayed to the shape of his body, even after he’d disappeared in the morning.

“How old are you?” Beth chided one night, just after she’d turned sixteen. He looked at her quizzically, taking off his hat as he paced her room that night. He ran his fingers through his hair.

“I thought we exclusively talked about chess?” He replied, snarky as ever.

“I’m curious,” She insisted.

“You made me up, Beth. How old do _you_ think I am?”

“I didn’t make you up,” Beth said, but even she didn’t know the real answers. “You appeared behind me one day. That’s all I know.”

“If that’s all you know, then that’s all I know,” He said bluntly, strolling over to sit on the edge of her bed. “Now, back to Luchenko’s games...”

Her imaginary cowboy seemed much smarter than her. They played together often, analysing moves in quick succession, laughing as they fought over who’d been the better player. She wanted to know everything about him, but he didn’t know his own story. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but her nerves got the better of her every time.

In Las Vegas, 1966, they were in her hotel room, looking over the endgame of one of her previous games, when Alma burst in.

Beth whipped round to her mother, blunt stare on her face. Her cowboy was _right there_ — opposite her, shuffling pieces around on the board and totally unbothered by her arrival.

“Hello, mother,” Beth said. Alma waltzed into the room, shutting the door. She walked straight past him, going to her bed and sighing as she lied down.

“Hello dear, good day?”

Sometimes Beth wanted to scream. She wanted to pick her imaginary cowboy up by his collar and shove him into someone’s, _anyone’s_ , face and yell— “He’s _here_. I thought of him. But I don’t know how.”

“I beat Nyman,” Beth explained, glancing back at him subtly.

“You _annihilated_ him,” He said, but Beth had no choice but to ignore it, moving her stare back onto her mother.

“That’s brilliant, dear,” Alma let out a yawn, rubbing her fingers over her forehead. “It seems I’ve caught another virus. Would you be a dear and grab some ice from the machine downstairs?”

Sometimes he travelled through doors with her. Sometimes he was just _there_ — waiting— on the other side of walls or jumping down from ceilings to walk in line with her, hands in his pockets and chains clinking around his neck.

They made their way down the hotel corridors slowly, as a silence flooded around them. He perked an eyebrow, noticing how she felt off.

“What’s up?” He always sounded so nonchalant. Beth sometimes couldn’t stand it. He left more unanswered questions with every sentence he spoke.

“I don’t _understand_ you,” She let out, avoiding his gaze. His unreal, fake, imaginary gaze.

He only chuckled. “I don’t think anyone is supposed to completely understand what’s inside their head,”

“I _didn’t_ create you. I’m certain of it,” She was talking to herself at this point— _literally_.

“Then how am I here?” He asked. He never usually asked things about his existence, simply accepting that he was just there with her, at all times. He almost always spoke about chess. That was it.

Beth stopped abruptly, her gut coiling. They were alone in the hallway, and she’d never had such an urge to reach out and touch him before— to know what he _felt_ like, or if he even _could_ be felt.

He watched hesitantly as she tentatively stuck out her hand towards his chest. As she got close, he took a sudden step back, putting his hands up, like she had a gun pointed to him.

“That’s not a good idea,” He said roughly. He’d never sounded so _sentient_ — like he had actual thoughts. Beth immediately got angry. She could feel the frustration tears welling behind her eyes.

“Why not? If I _made_ you— why can’t I?” She said venomously. She looked him up and down, before launching herself toward him again.

He swerved, backing away from her, further this time.

“You just _can’t_ ,” He said, swallowing down some unforeseen emotion that made his voice crack slightly. His eyes were glassy, his hat low, his hair draped in perfect waves like always.

Beth began to shake subtly, overcome with a rage she never knew was within her. It was painful, burning her insides with every step back her cowboy took, until he placed a hand on one of the hotel room doors gently.

“I’m sorry,” He said it with a finality that made Beth’s heart erupt into her throat. He opened the door as if he had a key, stepping through into the room and clicking the door shut. He didn’t look back at her, before disappearing into whatever void he went to when he wasn’t next to her.

Beth ran to the door as her tears overflowed. She would have ripped it off its hinges if she could, but instead hammered at the wood with all of her might. She wailed, she sobbed, all until the door was pulled open from under her knuckles—

“Can I _help_ you?” The man said, half nakedly dressed in a pair of swimming trunks. It wasn’t her cowboy, it was just some unknowing man in his Vegas hotel room, staring at her like she was fucked in the head.

_Maybe she was._

Beth left without saying a word, hugging herself as she paced it to the elevators. She collapsed in the lift, alone—

_Utterly_ alone.

Her cowboy was gone.

He didn’t come back. Not once. Not even when she willed him to. Not even when she clamped her eyes shut at night, praying that he’d be sat at her bed when she opened them—

She tried everything.

Winning games, drowning in drink, swallowing pills like imperial mints. When Alma died, she thought he’d reappear to discover her drowning her sorrows, trying and failing to hide the musk of the hundreds of smoked cigarettes and clink of empty bottles in her trash can.

Nothing worked. She slowly gave up.

When she sold the Lexington house in 1969, Beth headed to New York City. The memory of her cowboy still littered her mind, along with the things he’d taught her, allowing her to beat Borgov in that grand Russian hall. The King chess piece she carried around in her pocket at all times was a reminder of the things he’d done for her.

She’d drawn pictures; a cowboy hat, a serrated knife, a mop of blonde hair. Almost four years without him had left her with more unanswered questions than when he’d been next to her.

How could a mind create someone like _him_? How could a thought spring to life such a brilliant chess player, sarcastic commenter and friend for lonely nights?

Beth had always thought imaginary friends to be a sign of weakness but after he’d left, she’d known he was nothing but good.

It was getting easier after her win in Russia. She thought of all the good he’d given her over those seven years, not ageing a day while she grew into the champion she was meant to be.

After she’d won, she’d went back to her hotel room, utterly elated. “We did it, cowboy.” She’d whispered, but finally without a prayer for his return. She was past those wishes, now.

New York City was booming, and Beth was ready to grow. Columbia University had given her a scholarship. She played chess alongside her studies, still trying to top her best games after becoming a World Champion.

As Christmas loomed and a white blanket of snow covered the city, Beth would find herself going on long walks around Manhattan. One this particular night, the lights and music attracted her to a bar. It was Christmas Eve; she hadn’t even realised how fast the time had drifted away from her. She waited on the sidewalk for a few moments, before deciding to go inside.

The bar was warm and packed to the brim with festive smiles and drunken slurs. She found a spot at the bar, placing herself down on a copper stool as she peeled off her winter coat and scarf.

“A lemonade, please,” She smiled at the bar tender, before he got to making her drink.

“Such a conservative choice for Christmas Eve,” A voice rang out behind her. The breath caught in her throat as he sidled up next to her, placing his elbow on the bar, beer in hand.

Beth was thrown back into her ten-year-old self. _Her cowboy_ stood before her, hat donned, chains clinking around his neck, moustache snug atop his upper lip. It was _him_ — he _had_ to be— but she had to know—

Without saying a word, she poked him in the chest once. He scoffed as she retracted her finger. A blush wound its way onto her cheeks.

“Sorry,” She let out, swallowing uncomfortably.

“Perhaps a handshake would be better?” He said, amused. It was enough to make her want to cry. She took his hand in hers, almost flinching at the feel of his skin on hers.

His brows furrowed in question, as their hands stayed together. “Do I know you?” He let out, overcome by a sense of _Deja vu_ that he obviously hadn’t been expecting.

Beth came back to herself immediately. “That depends— do you play chess?” It was an odd question, one without context. His eyes beamed instantly.

“You’re Beth Harmon, aren’t you? The World Champion player,” Excitement washed over his face. Beth was astounded, but she tried with all her might to keep her cool.

“Yes, and you are?” She asked, trickling her eyes over his face.

“Benny Watts. I started playing chess this year, actually,” He let out a huff. “Maybe one day we’ll play against each other.”

“Maybe we will,” She said, almost in a whisper. The way their bodies drew each other’s in was something neither of them had been expecting.

After four years, her cowboy was _back_.

Beth knew then, as she indulged in her third lemonade and listened to Benny’s intriguing words and intelligent prose—

He’d always been real.

She just hadn’t met him yet.


End file.
